


talking to strangers (no stranger than you)

by susiecarter



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Communication Failure, Extra Treat, Flirting, Interspecies Awkwardness, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: "Arguing," Miles says. "It's like flirting for them, or something.""What?" Julian says.(Post-3.15: Julian learns something he didn't know about Cardassians, and then has to decide what to do about it.)





	talking to strangers (no stranger than you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shopfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/gifts).



> ♥
> 
> (Title from the poem "[Talk to Strangers](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/146504/talk-to-strangers)", by D.A. Powell.)

 

 

"Arguing," Miles says. "It's like flirting for them, or something."

"What?" Julian says.

He must be misunderstanding what Miles means by that, somehow. Not that it sounds very ambiguous, put that way, but there must be something he's missing. Or something Miles missed, some nuance that's escaped him; or Miles is going to clarify in a second, and then everything will make sense again.

But all Miles does is nod sagely at Julian, and add, "Means you want to hatch their scaly babies, apparently."

Julian stares at him. "You mean the women?" he suggests, feebly. "That it's—Cardassian women, when they argue—"

"Oh, no, no," Miles says, easy. "No, she said it was me being all confrontational that made her think I'd like her to—to bear me healthy young." He makes a face at this last, which is obviously a direct quote, or at least a paraphrase.

"And what did you tell her?" Julian hears himself say.

"Told her I already had some healthy young, thanks," Miles says, with a brief wild-eyed sort of look. "And a wife and everything, too. All set over here." He huffs out a disbelieving little laugh, and shakes his head. "Cardassians, eh?"

"Yes," Julian says. "Quite."

And luckily for him, he's only left sitting there staring haplessly at Miles for about three seconds before someone comms—Miles, not him, because apparently there's some sort of issue with a deflector coil or something, and Miles sighs a little and pushes his drink toward Julian and says, "Here. Somebody might as well enjoy it, if I'm not going to," before he adds, to his comlink, "All right, I'll be right there."

Julian manages to make some sort of face, hopefully a sympathetic one, as Miles stands and heads out.

And then it's only him, him and Miles's abandoned drink, left to contemplate the unpredictability of the universe together in Quark's.

Because of course it's utterly impossible to avoid thinking about it. He and Garak argue about—about all sorts of things, all the time. Garak _starts_ arguments at least three-quarters of the time, foisting his incomprehensible Cardassian epics off on Julian and then telling him he doesn't understand them, saying things Julian's almost certain he doesn't really believe just to see how Julian will react to them.

And the thing is, he'd been politer once. Even when they first met, he was—he'd been smooth and pleasant, gracious. But then he'd let Julian in a bit on the absolute mess of secrets he's keeping—not very far in, just enough to give Julian a glimpse, but still. He'd let Julian watch over him when that implant of his nearly killed him. And for all the lies he'd told Julian then, Enabran Tain had been real. Julian had recognized even then that Garak had given him that, tucked away in the middle of all those camouflaging deceptions. Hadn't had to, but had, and with it the chance to understand that the lies had been lies—and to learn Garak's first name besides.

Sometimes since, it's seemed almost sad to Julian, when he thinks about it: that Garak had said his name to Julian like that so many times, but hadn't ever quite been able to take that last step and actually tell him what it was. That the closest he could get was sending Julian off to search out a man who evidently hated him, and letting that man tell Julian instead.

And sometimes Julian just can't stop wishing he'd gotten to hear it from Garak.

At any rate, the thing Julian's never quite been able to understand about any of that, besides pretty much everything about Garak, is _why_. Why Garak had approached him in the first place; why Garak had gone ahead and allowed Julian to learn even that much about him. Or taken the time to demonstrate how well he lied, and under duress, and that he'd do it about things that didn't appear to matter—if you thought of it that way, it was almost kind of him, to go to the effort to share something so essential to the way he lived his life. As if, in case he did die, he wanted Julian to have known him first, even just a little.

But if Miles is right—

Julian swallows, suddenly hyperaware that he's begun to flush a bit, that his skin is prickling up along the backs of his hands and arms, his neck; that his ears have gone hot. If Miles is right, and Garak has been—and Garak is—well.

Then suddenly it all looks a bit different, doesn't it?

 

 

 

He can't ask Garak outright, obviously.

For one thing, it seems more than likely Garak would only tell him whatever he thought Julian wanted to hear, or whatever he himself wanted Julian to be told, or both. Worse still, of course, there remains a chance that Miles _was_ wrong somehow—that he misunderstood Gilora after all, or that she'd left out some critical nuance in her explanation. Julian can picture it all too easily: the comprehension dawning across Garak's face, Julian just one more Human who's made a foolish mistake when confronted with the complexities of Cardassian culture. Garak looking at him blandly, kindly, and carefully describing where Julian went wrong—

God. Julian would do just about anything to avoid risking that.

But fortunately there's a much simpler way to work out whether Miles has the right of it.

The next time he and Garak have lunch, Julian is going to try something different, that's all. He's going to be agreeable.

 

 

 

It's funny, how nervous it makes him.

He tries to remind himself that he's had lunch with Garak plenty of times. That there's every chance nothing at all will happen—that Miles is quite right when it comes to Cardassian men making advances on women, but Cardassian men making advances on other men do something else. Insult each other, or give each other knives, or—or stand on their heads.

But it just isn't easy to shake the thought: what if it's all exactly as Julian has begun to suspect? If all along, this whole time, they've been—from Garak's perspective, at least, they've been—

And of course Garak would have to have known it wouldn't necessarily come off like that to Julian. But in its own way that's almost more intriguing to think of: that Garak knew Julian wouldn't understand it and has been doing it anyway. That that's what he'd really meant, when he'd said it was lunch with Julian that he looked forward to, and that alone. As if perhaps the one tiny secret pleasure of his unbearable life in exile is to flirt with Julian, and that Julian should, all unknowing, flirt back—and it does have something of Garak about it, that Julian's ignorance has also probably provided him a certain sense of safety. Because, after all, as long as Julian didn't know, he couldn't tell Garak to stop.

Thinking that only serves to make something in Julian's chest clench itself up in a knot, which isn't very calming.

But he makes himself take one deep breath, and then another. He seats himself at their usual table, and waits. And when Garak appears at last, working his way through the replimat toward Julian with an apologetic sort of grimace, Julian manages to smile normally at him.

Probably.

"All apologies, my dear doctor," Garak says, when he's drawn close enough. "I had a fitting this morning that required exceptionally precise measurements, and in the end I had to redo half a dozen tentacles."

"A Zzllallat?" Julian guesses. He'd been notified of zzer arrival, as he always is when there's a chance he'll be required to provide medical care to a particularly uncommon species.

"Indeed," Garak agrees with a small sigh.

And of course their usual catch-up small talk isn't much of a test. Julian had wanted to wait until Garak arrived, so it's Garak who orders their food. Once they've settled into place again at their table, Julian relates in his turn the most interesting anecdote he has from today's first shift, and Garak listens attentively and nods in all the right spots, and even, once, smiles just a little bit.

But then, inevitably, the conversation turns toward Julian's current assigned reading, as he's taken to calling it where Garak can't hear.

And Julian swallows a forkful of something he suddenly can't taste, and clears his throat, and then says carefully, "Yes, I'm up to the fourth chapter now. It was very interesting."

"Interesting," Garak repeats, precise, when Julian doesn't elaborate.

"Yes. I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure I understood what was going on in the scene with the legate and his wife," Julian adds, but he keeps his tone light and neutral, not at all suggestive of frustration.

Which is utter nonsense, because he'd spent all last evening muttering furiously at his PADD as to what exactly in the hell he was supposed to have gotten out of that utterly useless exchange of dialogue. But saying that would be setting Garak up to argue with him over it.

"Oh, that," Garak says. "No, of course not. You won't understand that for at least another three or four chapters, I imagine."

His tone is light, too. But he's set his fork down, and he's watching Julian, holding oddly still in his chair.

Because, of course, this is Julian's cue. He's railed at Garak more than once about the unnecessarily labyrinthine structure considered the latinum standard in all the best-loved Cardassian literature—that sometimes the meaning of a single line on a book's first page won't be made clear until the third volume; that it's expected that you'll simply have to remember everything you don't understand, until at last it's rendered sensical by some other sequence entirely.

Which isn't particularly difficult for Julian, but thankfully Garak's never asked any questions Julian can't afford to answer.

Julian drops his gaze to his plate, twists his fork around a few times in his fingers, and says, "Ah, of course. I should have realized. Well, in that case I suppose I'd better keep reading before I try to make any guesses."

He risks a glance, and Garak is staring at him now; Garak's expression is pleasantly attentive, but Julian doesn't think he's blinked in at least two minutes.

And Garak doesn't break the silence right away. He just keeps giving Julian the same long, steady, unreadable look. And then he says quietly, "Yes. Yes, it's something Premin Gorjul is quite well known for."

Julian has to bite the inside of his lip hard not to keep from scowling at Garak in outrage. After all the time Julian's spent telling him how irritating that is, and hinting over and over that he might be better off starting with something just a bit more straightforward—Garak had made soothing noises, last time, and _agreed_ , and now the first thing he's given Julian after is an author who's _famous_ for exactly the thing—

But never mind. Julian breathes in, and does allow himself a single vicious stab with his fork; and then he makes himself say, "Oh, I'm sure. I mean, if you say so."

Surely that will do it, he's thinking. And now Garak will ask him what he's playing at, or if he's feeling well, or—

He isn't even really sure what he's expecting.

But it isn't for Garak to fall silent again, and look away at last. To sit there a moment longer, unmoving; and then to stand all at once, nearly sudden enough to topple his chair. "Forgive me, Dr. Bashir," and Julian's already reaching across the table to stop him, but that level friendly _Dr. Bashir_ hits him like a slap and stuns him into stillness. "I've just remembered a very urgent alteration I promised a customer by this afternoon; utterly slipped my mind, after all that business with the Zzllallat this morning. So sorry."

"Garak," Julian manages, and Garak looks up and meets his eyes and smiles at him, so pleasantly impersonal he almost recoils from it, and then leaves.

Garak didn't even—half his lunch is still sitting there, uneaten, as he walks away. And Julian sits there like an idiot with his mouth hung half-open, no idea what he meant to say and no one left to say it to, and a pit starting to open slowly in his stomach.

That wasn't what he'd wanted. He hadn't meant—he'd just wanted to make Garak ask, that's all. To say something or other that would give Julian an opportunity to allude to his brand-new knowledge, to bring up Miles and idly mention what he'd said and then see what Garak would do. To even have Garak confirm it, if he was lucky, or at least not deny it, and to—well.

To discuss whether it had been fair of him to argue with Julian all that time, and let Julian argue with him, without telling Julian what it meant.

To—argue about it, Julian thinks slowly. Because there's nothing in the world quite like a nice long argument with Garak, and Julian had almost been looking forward to it.

 

 

 

He can't leave it like that.

But of course he can't go after Garak right then. He does his best to finish his lunch, though his appetite's been lost. And it doesn't help any that he has to take Garak's tray back to the replicator, too, for reclamation.

He does his best to keep his attention where it needs to be through his second shift. But as soon as it's over, he doesn't waste a moment before he heads straight to Garak's shop.

Another half-hour and it would be closed, too, and Julian probably wouldn't have any hope of finding Garak short of claiming there was a medical emergency and overriding the computer to make it tell him.

But he's timed it right, and the front is still open. He braces himself and walks in, and doesn't know whether it's good or bad that Garak doesn't look up—that he calls out, "One moment, please," in a distracted sort of voice, and that Julian has to decide whether or not to clear his throat and let Garak know it's him.

He lets himself take another step first, just so he's further from the door. Just so it might be a bit more effort, if Garak wants to throw him out.

And then he does it, and Garak pauses partway through a motion and then very deliberately turns to look at Julian.

"Ah, Dr. Bashir. What an unexpected pleasure."

Julian winces a little. Still the Dr. Bashir; and coming from Garak, that "unexpected" is a bit of a dig, too, if he means to imply he hadn't thought Julian would bother coming by.

And in Julian's experience, considering the implications is crucial, with Garak.

Which is something that perhaps he should have given a bit more thought to _before_ lunch.

"I'd—I'd like to talk to you for a minute, Garak," Julian blurts out. "If you don't mind."

"Oh?" Garak looks at him with mild interest, and then turns back to the table in front of him. Cloth, lovely, patterned green and blue and gold, all stacked up in a pile. Must just have been delivered, and Garak's taking measurements, trimming it somehow or other, taking pieces now and then and folding them, and setting them aside. "And do we have something to talk about, Doctor?"

"I think so," Julian says, cautious.

"Interesting," Garak says to the table. "And here I'd thought it was all quite straightforward." He smooths down a rebellious fold, and then adds, "Someone told you, I suppose."

"Miles," Julian admits.

And that at least gets Garak to look at him again, Garak's brow ridges rising ever so slightly. "Chief O'Brien?" Garak murmurs, and—of course, he probably knows Miles's general sentiments toward Cardassians. Of all the people he'd imagined letting Julian in on this particular secret, no doubt he hadn't even considered Miles.

Which naturally means Julian has to start from the beginning and tell him the whole story. He feels a moment's startled hope when he gets to the bit about Miles and Gilora in the Jefferies tube, Miles trapped there clutching a spanner or something and listening to a Cardassian talk about strong, healthy children—because Garak actually cracks half a smile then, and for that instant everything feels entirely all right, and Julian draws the first full breath he's taken since lunch.

But then that tiny smile fades, and they're stuck staring at each other again in Garak's silent shop. And what's left, Julian discovers, when Garak's deliberate placidity has cracked away, is a Garak who looks tired. Tired, and a bit resigned.

"Well," Garak says quietly at last, "that explains it. And in that case I imagine I'd better wish you many excellent lunches in future, as I won't be there to partake of them. I'd beg your pardon, Dr. Bashir, but it would be unkind of me to place you in the position of having to refuse to grant it."

Julian stares at him. He doesn't know what to do next. He's so rarely had to, with the two of them—Garak had been the one to introduce himself to Julian in the first place, the one to turn a lunch now and then into a standing arrangement; the one giving Julian Cardassian books to talk about, and asking Julian for help. Julian's barely had to do a thing, really, except let him.

But perhaps it's time that changed.

"Well, you can't just—you can't just cancel on me like that," Julian says, fumbling a bit, and then he clears his throat and tips his chin up and thinks: come on. Come on, do it right or not at all. "All at once, and without any warning, when we've been having lunch together more than a year now? Really, Garak. That's terribly rude."

Garak pauses over his stack of cloth, and it feels like it takes an hour for him to meet Julian's eyes again. But he does. He does, and he stands there for a moment just looking, and then wets his lips carefully and says, "Is it?"

"Oh, yes," Julian tells him immediately. And then, over the relentless pound of his hammering heart, hears himself add, "And don't think for a moment that I'm not prepared to argue the point."

For an instant, he thinks it hasn't worked. Garak looks away again and reaches for his stack, straightens it up and tugs at a corner poking out, and seems almost not to have heard at all.

But when he glances over at Julian again, he's smiling just a little, that pale mouth slanting.

"Never, my dear doctor. I—don't suppose you'd care to continue discussing the particulars of the etiquette involved over dinner this evening?"

"I'd love to," Julian says at once, and smiles back.

 

 


End file.
